The music came to a swirling crescendo, and the couples whirled to a stop. Ralston watched as they began to promenade from the floor as the orchestra paused in its playing. He saw Juliana and Rivington find Mariana and Nick and resume their earlier conversation, but there was no sign of Oxford and Callie.

Where the hell had they gone?

After their waltz, Oxford guided Callie to a small, private antechamber off a long, dark corridor beyond the Salisbury House ballroom. The doors to the hallway had been left open to increase the flow of air into the stifling ballroom and Oxford led her into the secluded area after their waltz, insisting they enjoy a quiet moment together.

Eyeing the doorway, left barely open, Callie offered Oxford a wavering smile. “Thank you, my lord, for your escort,” she said, graciously. “I forget how very cloying balls can be.”

Oxford took a step closer. “Please, do not think of it.”

Callie inched away as he closed the distance between them. “I find I am rather parched, my lord. Perhaps we could return to the ball and find the refreshment room?”

“Or, perhaps, we could distract ourselves from thirst with…other pursuits?” He paused. “Darling.”

Callie’s brows rose at the endearment. “My lord,” she said in protest as he stepped closer, forcing her up against the wall next to the door to the hallway. Nervousness coursed through her. “Baron Oxford!” she exclaimed, uncertain of his motives.

He leaned in, closer. “Rupert,” he corrected, “I think it is time we dispense with formalities. Don’t you?”

“Baron Oxford,” she said firmly, “I should like to return. Now. This is highly inappropriate.”

“You won’t think so when you hear what I have to say,” he replied. “You see…” he stopped on a long, lingering pause. “I’m offering you the chance to be my baroness.”

Callie’s eyebrows shot up at his words.

He noted her surprise and tried again, this time speaking to her as though she were a child. “You have the opportunity to marry. Me.”

Dear Lord, was there not a single man in London in possession of an ounce of romance when it came to marriage proposals?

Callie swallowed back a nervous laugh, edging toward the door. “My lord. I am quite honored that you would think of me…” She paused, attempting to find the appropriate words to delicately refuse.

And then his arms had snaked around her and his lips were on hers, wet and soft and not at all pleasant. His tongue pushed into her mouth, and Callie recoiled from the touch, her hands flying up to his shoulders to stay his advances. He mistook the movement for a caress and pressed on, towering over her, crowding her into the wall until she felt the hard edge of the doorjamb pressing into the back of her as he pulled back briefly to whisper, “Do not be shy. We shan’t be caught. And if we are, we are betrothed.”

Callie leaned away from the baron, shaking her head at his unmatched arrogance. The idea that she would simply collapse into gratitude at the mere hint of a proposal would have stung if it weren’t so preposterous. Pushing against him with all her might, Callie said, “I am afraid you are severely misguided.” He stopped his advancement as she squeezed out from between him and the wall. “I have no intention of marrying you. I should like you to leave.”

Oxford blinked twice, as though unable to comprehend her decision. “You cannot be serious.”

The irony of the situation was not lost on Callie. After twenty-eight years of waiting for someone, anyone, to show interest in her, two men propose to her and she rejects both suits. Was she mad?

“Indeed, I am quite serious. It appears that you have mistaken my friendship.”

“Friendship!” Oxford sneered, sending a bolt of fear through Callie at the harsh change in his tone. “You think I’m looking for friendship? On the contrary. I’m looking for a wife.” He spat the words at her as though she were addle-pated.

Callie recoiled instinctively from him, surprised by this new Oxford—gone was the brightly smiling vapid dandy, replaced by an angry, unpleasant man. “Then it appears you have been laboring under a misapprehension that I am seeking a husband.”

Oxford’s lip curled, and he spoke, rudely. “Come now. You cannot expect me to believe that you haven’t been dreaming of this. Isn’t this the moment of which all aging spinsters dream?”

She pulled herself up to her full, proud height. “Certainly, Lord Oxford, we dream of proposals of marriage. We simply do not dream of them coming from you.”

She watched as rage passed over him, and he stiffened, his face turned a shocking shade of red. Ordinarily, she would have taken some pride in such a transformation, but instead, fleetingly, she thought he might strike her. He did not, instead pulling back and freeing her from his stifling closeness. She watched as rage turned to disgust, and she finally saw what he really felt for her—complete and utter disdain.

“You are making a terrible mistake,” he warned.

“I sincerely doubt that.” Callie’s words turned cold, her defenses raised. “This conversation is over.”

He stared at her, eyes glittering with anger, as she turned resolutely away, returning her attention to the dark gardens beyond. “I’m the best offer you’ll ever have. You think anyone would actually want a piglet like you?” The words were meant to sting, and they did. She kept her back straight as he exited the room, and she listened to his footsteps disappear, returning him to the ballroom, before she came back to her chair.